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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23363233">An Inch An Hour</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenBloodyTears/pseuds/GoldenBloodyTears'>GoldenBloodyTears</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>No Heart No Pain [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(for like the first chapter), Bisexual Female Character, Black Comedy, Canon Divergent, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Choking, Crimes &amp; Criminals, Discussion of the identity society places upon you, Drill Choice Referenced, F/M, Horror, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Knives, POV Female Character, POV Third Person Limited, Psychological Torture, Religious Guilt, Slice of Life, Smile while you work because customer service is Hell, Snuff, Somewhat beta read, Torture, Trauma, sex on a corpse, tags updated as i go</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:21:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,883</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23363233</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenBloodyTears/pseuds/GoldenBloodyTears</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Life's going pretty good for Iris. She's got a job as a waitress in a town where nobody knows her, and that's just how she likes it. Unfortunately, running into one of her customers after work has its consequences.</p><p> </p><p>“Think about it.  You can’t see. Can’t speak. You don’t know where you are.”<br/>Strade tugs on her left arm so that the zip-tie chafes against her bound wrists.<br/>“You’re also tied up.”<br/>He pulls her up onto her feet, his grip tight on her upper arms.<br/>“Where will you go?”<br/>He pulls her backwards suddenly, her shoulders colliding with his chest. It’s almost like a hug as he envelops her, his head on her shoulder while he continues to grip her arms.<br/>“Your only hope,” Strade continues with an audible pop, “is me.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Strade (BTD/TNR)/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>No Heart No Pain [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2224035</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Iris</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Good customer service is about how fake you can be. Nobody says that, of course, but it's the unspoken rule and one that Iris knows well. She’s not really anyone's friend—although she’s certainly gotten good at acting like it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More coffee please!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And why shouldn’t she be good at it? She’s worked shitty service jobs since she was a glasses-clad junior, working part-time at a Christmas ornament kiosk. A warm smile here, some friendly banter there and soon enough customers think they know somebody well enough to call them by their first name. That there’s no sharp teeth behind that “Here’s your coffee, sir” as she places the porcelain mug on the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you… Irene?” The man has got to be in his late 70s, thin and balding with a thick eastern European accent she can’t place. It’s not German at any rate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Iris,” She corrects with a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> It's what’s written on her nametag, but not on her birth certificate. Her favourite flowers had seemed like a good replacement at the time. Childhood memories of the purple ones she could always see from her bedroom window, bursting through the damp spring soil in her mother’s garden. She tried to recreate that garden years later, but failed, and just like her real name—and so many other things—it was better left buried and forgotten.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In some ways, it’s hard to believe it’s been three months since she rolled into town. Snow and salt still cover the ground and her car, making the passage of time seem null and void when the shitty serial-killer-hunting-ground-looking motel she’s currently living in is a never changing constant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She still remembers removing all the paintings off the walls in case the Perkins motel manager had gotten any funny ideas.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And just like her motel, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hansen's Diner</span>
  </em>
  <span> looks like it’s seen better days. Its outside walls faded, a bright pink painted over the concrete turned pale rose and chipped away by years of bad weather. The diner is quiet most days when not during rush, popular mainly with seniors and those like her, with nowhere better to be. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Truthfully? It’s the perfect place to be overlooked.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It also helps that the owners are trusting. She’d seen the Help Wanted poster on her third day in town, bright red in the window like a beacon for the lost. No references? A half-made-up-half-true story about an abusive ex? She should have been laughed out of the diner. Told to get lost. It should have been harder. But the Hansens had listened to her story. Anne had mumbled something in German, a tight lipped smile as her son, Benny, had translated it. And then, they had taken her hands into theirs, and with a thick accent to her English, Anne had welcomed her to the diner. They’ve been more than kind to her since, paying her in cash and letting her take leftovers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe—Just maybe—she should feel bad for lying to an old woman and her family. But it’s not like she’s got a choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fischbrötchen und Kartoffelsalat!” Anne declares the order with all the pomp and circumstance of a gift fit for family as she places the takeout box containing a fish bun and potato salad onto the counter. For a tiny 83 year old woman with dementia, she runs the place with startling efficiency. Even as her English declines and Benny has to take over more of the general management, more days than most Anne can be found in the diner’s kitchen doing what she loves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s not quite sure she would call her current existence living, but it’s better than the past. It’s a good “life”, simple. Work. Get paid. Save up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe one day she can actually live again. Until then, day by day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>...Fischbrötchen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What day is it? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit. It’s a Friday, and there’s only one person she knows who orders that specific takeout on Fridays.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even worse, she’s the closest to the cash.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unlike most places she’s worked, the Hansens have a quirk. Takeout is paid for only after receiving it on the counter. She doesn’t understand it, and Benny has tried to explain—something about allowing customers to change their minds or add things—but it still doesn’t make sense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iris takes her place behind the cash, throwing her best customer service smile on. It does absolutely nothing to make her feel any friendlier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi Strade!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Iris.” The man of the hour is grinning at her, 20k-lightbulb-watt-of-a-smile to match her own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s something… uncomfortable about Strade. She hasn’t been able to figure it out yet. He’s not like other guys, who flirt unsuccessfully and then try to cop a feel when they think nobody’s looking. No, he’s better than that—although she’s caught him staring at her a few times when he visits… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you going bar hopping tonight?” She asks, feigning interest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That fucking grin he’s wearing grows wider.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’d you know?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughs, double checking his total. It’s not like it’s a Tuesday, idiot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He almost feels like he’s too friendly. Too friendly with her specifically—but even with others there’s a certain… intensity. The rare occasion that he doesn’t get takeout, he always sits by himself. Where’s his friends if he’s so friendly? The other girls don’t really see it. To Marie and Annika, Strade is just Strade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t want to join, do you?” He asks, laughing a beat later as he slides a twenty across the counter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, but you know how work goes…” She keeps her smile frozen tight as she opens the cash drawer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even if she wasn’t working. Even if he was serious. Not in a million years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Iris.” Benny’s voice is in her ear now, and from the clink of porcelain behind her she knows he’s organizing the coffee mug display for the fifth goddamn time today. “Can you open tomorrow? Marie called in sick.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I can. You didn’t even have to ask.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great! Hey Strade!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh—And then, of course, he’s also the goddamn star customer for the Hansens; a fellow German expat and friendly with both of them. It’s only then that he feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>truly</span>
  </em>
  <span> genuine, when he’s speaking in a language she’s only vaguely able to piece together. Hell, she’d thought they were related the first time seeing them all interacting, even though Strade looks nothing like Anne or Benny with his brown skin and even darker hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll be seeing you soon?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iris holds out his change, cupped tightly within her hand, and when he reaches forward to take it, she feels his fingers against her wrist. The discomfort is strong. She stretches her smile even wider to cover it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Lights Out</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Work is over, and the night is long. Be careful, for dangerous things lurk in the dark.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Later, well after the Hansens have gone home and the customers have dried up, the diner goes into closing mode for the night. Straws are drawn, which Annika promptly loses and is banished to bathroom cleanup. Iris gets the front, which works for her. It’s the easiest as far as she’s concerned. Clean the tables. Clean the counter. Mop the floor. Deposit the day’s cash into the safe in the closet Benny keeps for an office.</p><p>“Hey Iris,” Annika says, later, after her tour of the bathrooms, “Do you want to come out with me and Cook tonight?”</p><p>Cook is quite literally the cook, and Anne’s second-in-command as far as the kitchen goes. He wears his title as if it’s his name and even introduced himself with it when she’d been hired—up until Benny revealed his name is actually Joel.</p><p>Iris looks up from the cash, where she’s counting the money in the till.</p><p>“Sorry,” she replies with an apologetic smile,  “I’m opening for Marie tomorrow.”</p><p>“You’re always working!” Annika huffs as she does up her coat.</p><p>“Some of us need to pay bills.” She closes the cash drawer and shoots Annika a pointed look that shuts her up quick. She feels bad. It might actually be nice to hang-out with Annika and Cook. But if she’s opening tomorrow, she’s got better things to do than watch them suck face in the back of some bar.</p><p>“Can we take you out tomorrow then?” Cook says, entering from the kitchen. He takes his spot next to his 5’10-tower-of-a-girlfriend, wrapping his arm around her waist. Annika grins, leaning her head onto Cook’s. “Yeah, what about tomorrow?”</p><p>Iris sighs.</p><p>There’s one thing she’s learned about Annika; the woman does not take ‘no’ for an answer.</p><p>“Fine. Tomorrow.” She seals the envelope containing the day’s total. “Cook, can you put this in Benny’s office?”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The walk back to the motel is quieter at least, having managed to ditch Annika and Cook in the diner’s parking lot. It’s better that way. Nobody needs to know where she “lives”.</p><p>The night is mild, but with a cold breeze that makes Iris’ face hurt. She should have worn a scarf—or at least some mitts. She balls her fists inside her coat pockets to keep them warm. The street is deserted at this hour, and the trees that line the opposite side of it cast long shadows under the streetlights. She walks faster. </p><p>At the end of the street is <em> Bratty Bob’s </em>, a dive bar that always has something going on. She considers it the finish line because if she cuts through the parking lot, there’s a gap in the fencing that gets her to the motel on the other side. </p><p>She’s almost at the fence when loud voices from behind make her stop. She turns. There’s two men in the parking lot, and from the looks of it, they’re arguing. They must have come out of the bar because the guy on the right is swaying.</p><p>“Get away from me!”  </p><p>“Relax buddy, I’m just trying to help.” His friend holds his hands up and looks around—probably embarrassed his buddy is causing a scene. Lucky for him, the parking lot is empty of people—and lucky for her, she goes unnoticed in the shadow of the garbage shed. </p><p>“Yeah? Well I don’t need your he—” </p><p>The drunk guy doesn’t have time to finish his sentence—or prepare for the sucker punch to his gut before he drops like a rock. From the pavement, he manages to glare at his friend right before he pukes on his boots. </p><p>Well then. Drunk <em> and </em> angry men. No fucking thanks. It’s time to go!</p><p>But before Iris can leave, the man who threw the punch grabs his buddy’s hair and forces his head into the puke-covered pavement with enough force to break his nose if not at least give him a concussion.</p><p>Okay, it’s really time to go… </p><p>The man crouches, digging through his pockets for something. He then grabs his friend—they’re not friends, they are not fucking friends—and binds his arms behind his back. He doesn’t fight back—Fuck, is he unconcious? Should she do something?—not even when his totally-not-friend uses his scarf as a makeshift gag and then hauls him to his feet, dragging him over to a nearby car and stuffing him into the trunk.</p><p>She needs to go. She needs to leave. Needs to put her feet into motion—one, two, lets go! </p><p>But, instead of leaving quietly, she backs into a recycling bin—because of-fucking-course she does! </p><p>Without a moment to lose, Iris races around the corner of the garbage shed before the angry man?—the potential hit-man?—can see her. Stop panicking. Stop fucking panicking. Think!</p><p>She isn’t close enough to the fence to make a quick getaway.</p><p>She won’t be able to outrun him if she tries to make it into the bar.</p><p>She doesn’t even have a functioning cellphone!</p><p> Iris turns around on the spot, looking for something she can at least try to hide behind. There! Near the bottom of the garbage shed is a gap in the wood, just big enough for her to fit through. She climbs inside quickly.</p><p>And… it reeks. She holds her breath, trying to not gag on the nauseating stench of wet garbage and booze. The man’s footsteps are loud, an ominous crunching of gravel as he comes to a stop just in front of her hidey-hole.</p><p>Iris swallows and leans around the corner just enough to look. The man has his back to her. Good. </p><p>Only problem? She’s stuck in a corner if he turns around. </p><p>Iris reaches down slowly with her right hand towards her boot. Slowly, she pulls her switchknife out, and then pops the blade. </p><p>“Bastard Waschbär.” The man’s German is thick, but his voice is familiar.</p><p>His jacket too. Hell, just his stance as he stands around like a dumb-angry-deer-in-the-headlights. </p><p>It’s fucking Strade. Son of a bitch. </p><p>Strade turns on his heel, heading back around the garbage shed. His footsteps fall away, and then there’s the sound of his car door slamming, followed by the engine starting.</p><p>If she’s going to go, she needs to go now! </p><p>Iris stuffs her knife back into her boot and rushes to climb out of the shed. Her coat hooks on something; she tugs it free—if it rips, it rips. </p><p>And then she’s running towards the fence. Running like the devil himself is on her heels. She doesn’t stop, not even as she crosses the motel parking lot. Not until she’s in front of room 13. She tears the room card out of the breast pocket of her coat, unlocking the door. She slams it shut behind her, locking it and dragging a chair in front. </p><p> </p><p>Iris sits down in the chair, placing her head in her hands.</p><p>That was close. </p><p>That was too fucking close.   </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Up next: A secret is revealed and a mistake is paid for.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Neighborhood Threat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sometimes, you should really just call in sick for work.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The next morning comes too soon after a night of no sleep. Iris opens her eyes for what feels like the billionth time. What time is it now?  She turns on the bedside light, checking the digital clock on the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s 5:30. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, looks like it’s time to get up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She throws off the covers and climbs out of bed. The threadbare carpeting under her feet transitions to cold tile as she steps into the bathroom, flipping the light switch on the wall. She looks like shit in the mirror. Long dark hair a tangled mess and eyebags from a restless sleep. She grabs her brush and attempts to fix her hair, frowning when she realizes her roots are starting to show. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s bigger problems than roots, idiot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure, she saw Strade stuff a guy into his trunk last night. That’s not a normal Friday night by any means—doesn’t mean she has to do something about it though…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t want to think about what’s happened to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iris strips off her pajamas, stepping into the shower. The water is fucking ice cold; she grits her teeth while waiting for it to warm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That poor guy… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, he’s probably dead in a ditch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe… Maybe she should—Fuck no! Telling somebody would be bad! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who would she even tell—the Hansens? Right, and then the cops get called. Bad news. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hell, what are the chances they’d believe her over Strade, anyways? Feels too much like thin ice that she’d rather not skate on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After she’s showered, she gets dressed. Yellow uniform. Black leggings. Knife in boot. Coat over top. She then takes a minute to practice her best ‘Welcome-to-Hansen’s-everything-is-fine’ smile in the mirror before brushing her teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> It’s still fake, but she feels a little more normal for doing it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the time she gets to the diner, the weather has gone from early morning bad to worse. It's started to rain, a torrential downpour that soaks through her coat and leaves her feeling cold to the bone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d love nothing more than to go inside and dry off. Unfortunately, sticking her hand into her pocket reveals a hole—likely from her coat getting hooked last night—and not a single key to be found. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not a big deal, really. Easy fix. Cook is usually early. Also carries his own set of keys. If anything, he’s probably unlocked the back door and gotten started on breakfast prep already. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Today can be normal—if she lets it be. No Strade. No missing  keys. Just go in by the kitchen, unlock the front door. Start prep. Nobody needs to know. If she’s lucky, some </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bratty Bob’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> employee has already found them while emptying the trash and picked them up. She can have them back before even having to tell Benny she lost them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or at least, that would be the idea if the kitchen door wasn’t still locked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck. Of course, Cook would be late today. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sigh, Iris turns to exit the side-alley. She’s gonna have to make an early trip to the bar... to dig through garbage. Fun.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, a car pulls in at the end of the alley, with the beams on high. She looks away, blinded—the bastard needs to turn the lights off. It comes to a slow stop ahead of her, with the driver putting the car into park. It’s not Cook’s truck, that’s certain.Too low to the ground and missing the distinct dying radiator sound. But from the high beams mixed with the rain, she can’t make anything else out even if she squints. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it’s Benny? Shit, he’s probably wondering why she’s standing in the rain like an idiot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pulls her hand out of her pocket and waves, plastering a smile onto her face. Time to kiss ass for losing the keys. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The driver is a wavering shadow behind the wheel. With a heavy clunk they open the door, stepping out onto the wet pavement. The car is left on, idling away with the beams still on. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>shwip-shwip-shwip</span>
  </em>
  <span> noise of the running windshield wipers do nothing to calm her as she raises her voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Benny? I know this looks weird, but I promise I can explain!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And she’s totally prepared to—at least until </span>
  <em>
    <span>Strade</span>
  </em>
  <span> steps into the light. With a sudden lurch, Iris feels her heart plummet through her ribs like that time she was 10 and on the drop tower at Wonderland. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lose something?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade tosses an object towards her. She catches it, a dull twinkle of metal as it lands in her hands. Her keys, as clear as day, are now sitting in her shaking palms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How! How did he get her keys? They were—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He must have seen her leave from the car. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want?” Iris swallows, setting her spine straight as she looks back up to face him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There was a…” Strade pauses, and then laughs as he steps closer. “There was a racoon who saw something she shouldn’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabs her by the arm before she can react, his fingers digging deep enough that there’s going to be bruises left for sure. Iris feels the keys slide out of her hand.  There’s a hazy static at the back of her head, an adrenaline-fueled itch rushing up her spine as her brain starts to run a mile a minute—she could try pushing him away. Screaming. That’s stupid. What’s screaming going to do? Her knife? He’s holding her dominant arm. The alley is a dead-end. Cook—he’d have been useful. Even at 5’5” he’s shredded, and she’s confident he could easily hand Strade his own ass—star customer or not. But Cook’s not here… and based off what she saw last night, Strade is dangerous when provoked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It might be better to play his game.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if the racoon isn’t planning to tell anyone?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade has got to be only a few inches taller than her normally, but he’s towering over her now. She’s never noticed the colour of his eyes before, never had to when he was just a customer—they’re a sharp golden, like a predator looking at his next meal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> “What if… she has just as much to lose?” She continues, forcing her jaw to work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Strade says nothing in response, his fingers still digging into her skin through her coat. If only she could reach her boot without him noticing…Push him away. Grab her knife. Then she could just fucking kill him—maybe that’s the best option here?  She could stab him, stuff his body into the trunk and drive off in his car before anyone knows. There’s other cities, other diners, other shitty little motels to live in. The thought of freedom tastes like blood on her tongue. Honestly, wouldn’t that be funny? Kidnapper gets killed by the—  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t believe you, yeah?” Strade grins. His voice is low, but the underlying threat is clear. He presses in closer, forcing her to back up into the brick wall of the alley. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> “I’m—Strade—Wait!” She needs to think of something—something fast because there’s no way ‘I’m thinking about killing you’ is a good response! Say something! Anything! Get his trust! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care!”  She hisses, “The cops will fuck up my life as much as yours!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Apparently, it’s going to be the truth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Strade lets out a chuckle at her answer. What the fuck does he find funny about it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah…  I’d rather not take the chance.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lets go of her arm then, but only to place his hands around her neck. Panic blooms in her stomach, cold and sharp like metal thorns in her gut. She’s been choked before. She knows how this goes. They’re not outside—it’s not raining. It’s not even Strade. There’s a turned over kitchen chair digging into her back instead of a brick wall and Adam’s hands are crushing her throat. Adam, I’m sorry. I promise! I didn’t-I won’t do it-I—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let go!” Iris wheezes, grabbing Strade’s wrists as she tries to pry his hands away. He won’t stop. Not even when her nails dig into his skin. Her vision is blurring with the rain, heart hammering away in her chest. His eyes are narrowed, bangs plastered to his face. She needs to say something. Get him off of her. Can’t breathe. Can’t reach her knife. Can’t breathe—there’s-something-wet-under-her-nails-that’s-probably-not-the-rain—but all she can think about is how she can’t breathe. Can’t fucking breathe! Can’t breathe and it’s all going—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s on the ground, wet pavement pressed against her cheek. Strade has her arms behind her back, and with a tug, secures them with what feels like a plastic zip tie. She takes a breath; her lungs burn from the inside out in response.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you!” She rasps as he crouches down in front of her.  Strade grins back as he fishes around in his pocket. He pulls out a small roll of duct tape, and with a tear of the teeth, slaps it across her mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Time to go!” He chirps, his grin growing even wider.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the last thing she sees before he slips some kind of sack over her face—a pillow case?—and then everything is dark. </span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Up next: More secrets revealed, some by choice--others by force.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Locked in the Trunk of a Car</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Later, after she’s stopped trying to count the stops and her legs have grown tired from the fruitless attempt to kick out his back lights, Strade’s car comes to a permanent stop. The engine dies; the driver’s door slams shut. There’s the crunch of road salt, each of Strade’s heavy steps agonizingly louder the closer he gets to opening the trunk. Iris rolls over quickly, ignoring the protest from her arms as she pins them beneath her own body weight. The trunk pops, cold air rushing in as Strade lifts the hood. She can’t see him with the bag-pillowcase-thing on her head, but she still angles her right leg, kicking out with her foot blindly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade grabs her by the ankle, letting out a low chuckle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You aren’t the first, remember?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pose is awkward with her leg stuck upwards in his grasp; he’s likely angled himself away from getting hit even if she attempts to kick him with her left now. Her yelp is muffled by the tape when Strade grabs her by the front of her uniform to drag her up from the bed of the trunk. It’s more painful than effective, using only her uniform and leg, but does the job. Her knees hit cold pavement when he drops her, drawing another muffled cry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you’d be smarter than that,” Strade says. His voice is low, almost soft. She wouldn’t dare to describe it as sounding concerned—far too ominous for that—but it’s the closest emotion she can think of as he continues talking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think about it.  You can’t see. Can’t speak. You don’t know where you are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tugs on her left arm so that the zip-tie chafes against her bound wrists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re also tied up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls her up onto her feet, his grip tight on her upper arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where will you go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls her backwards suddenly, her shoulders colliding with his chest. It’s almost like a hug as he envelops her, his head on her shoulder while he continues to grip her arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What will you do?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The silence that stretches on is long. It’s not like she can even answer, gagged as she is. All she can do is whistle-breathe through her nose, pretending that she’s not shaking so hard that he can feel it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your only hope,” Strade continues with an audible pop of the last syllable, “is me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushes her forward then, directing her towards something she can’t see, and all she hopes is that it’s not a surprise that hurts. Like a knife in the ribs. That would suck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s the sound of an electric lock and a door opening. Warm air hits her face through the pillowcase as he pushes her forward. There’s the sound of a tv in another room, the same distinct jingle of a commercial she’s seen several-times-too-many on the motel shitbox. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to take her to his actual house, would he? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iris squints, eyes adjusting to the shift in light filtering through the fabric. She can see ever-so-slightly if she focuses. Apparently, Strade couldn’t invest in a thicker pillowcase fabric… not that she's complaining.  There’s a door, and when he pushes it open, the low groan from its hinges reveal the weight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s stairs.” Strade says simply, neither warning or taunt apparent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, at least he doesn’t want to deal with the inconvenience of her breaking her own neck falling down his stairs…  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Possibly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stairs creak as she descends them, and with Strade’s hands on her shoulders, she feels more than a little nervous. There’s nothing to really stop him from pushing her if he feels like it… and she can’t brace for the fall if he does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They reach the bottom of the stairs without incident, thankfully. The light has disappeared, leaving her in pitch black once more with the pillowcase still over her head. Strade pushes her forward. He then shoves her to the right—her foot hits a doorway, sharp pain shoots up her leg.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her foot is throbbing as Strade grabs her shoulders again, turning her around quickly. She collapses backwards, landing onto something leathery. A chair? But then Strade is on top of her, his knee digging painfully into her left thigh as he presses her shoulders further into the backrest with his hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re smart, you won’t move,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then they’re shoulder-to-shoulder, his head next to hers as he reaches behind her to undo the zip-tie. He’s too close. Chest to chest. Crushing her under his weight. She’s never wanted to be this close to anybody, and certainly not him. He moves fast, and her arms are quickly tied to the armrests of the chair she’s sitting in. It’s only then that he climbs off her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pillowcase comes off next, and for a second Iris wishes he would put it back so she wouldn’t have to see his stupid face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks around at their surroundings. Maybe there’s some kind of escape? There’s a tv opposite to her, running adjacent to the wall behind her. The coffee table in front of it is littered with beer cans and other trash. The couch behind it, along the opposite wall, looks incredibly well-lived in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Apparently, she’s been trapped in Strade’s shitty little man-cave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It almost makes her motel room seem like an improvement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, he rips the tape off her mouth. Even though her skin is stinging enough to make her want to swear a string of curses, Iris bites it back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve made your point.”  She says instead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh? And what's that?” Strade asks in return. He looks pleased, like some smug bastard of a cat that just swallowed the looney tunes bird. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cops bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snorts at that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can trust me. I don’t have a good reason to go to the cops. I mean, they’re all bastards anyway,” Iris continues. Sure, it’s a repeat of what she tried to tell him earlier, but there’s no easy escape now. “Come on, you can trust me…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think we know each other well enough yet.” Strade’s grin splits further across his face. Her heart jumps to her throat. He doesn’t look smug anymore. Menacing would be a far better word. “But we’ll fix that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened to the other guy?” She blurts, regretting it a second later. Her right leg is bouncing so fucking bad—she knows Strade can see it because when he turns to look at her after placing his jacket on the couch behind him his eyes traces up her body from her legs to her face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, him?” He says nonchalantly, like she’s asking about the weather and not the guy she saw him stuff into his trunk. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wou—“ And that’s when she notices the knife he’s now holding. “Oh.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey-Hey-Hey! Strade. Wait. Strade! Wait!” She can hear her voice rising with each step forward he takes. She pushes at the floor with her legs in a panic, realizing then that the bastard tied her to a wheelie chair because she goes about a foot backwards before crashing into something—throwing her head back reveals a computer desk and a cabinet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade… looks like he’s enjoying this. The fucking bastard, of course he is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to do this!” She tries pleading. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually, I do,” Strade says, letting out a chuckle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you really don’t!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiles—smiles mean trustworthy right?—but from the curious look Strade is giving her it has to be the most frenzied fuck-up of a grin ever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he’s right in front of her, and all she can see is that stupid fucking knife! She closes her eyes tight, bracing for the pain when he stabs her in the chest or slits her throat or whatever he has planned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look at me,”  Strade says. She can feel his hand in her hair, palm resting loosely against her scalp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What’s he waiting for? If he thinks she’s going to look death in the face, he can go fuck himself. There’s no way in hell she's going to look at him, and if that makes her a coward, so be it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade twists his fingers into her hair and yanks her head back, making her wince. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look at me.” He repeats. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iris opens her eyes slowly to find him staring at her, what feels like mere inches from her face. She’d love nothing more than to claw his creepy predator eyes from their sockets, but being tied down all she can do is recoil into the chair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be scared,” He practically coos, loosening his grip on her hair again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don’t be scared? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t be scared!?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Hypocrite bastard. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t be scared, I only almost-ripped-the-hair-from-your-scalp</span>
  </em>
  <span>—if he’d just untie her from the chair, she’d give </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> several reasons to be scared!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade parts her legs with his left knee, then braces himself against the chair by pressing it to the open space on the seat between her thighs. A burning sense of disgust mixed with dread and discomfort floods her body, rising from deep within her stomach up to her face. He’s straddling her! </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s fucking straddling her right goddamn leg! </span>
  </em>
  <span>Except—the sense of disgust twists with sudden realization as his right hand drops from her hair to grab her coat—if he’s straddling her leg, her knee is in the perfect place to say hello to his balls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Strade says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks up to his face. He’s staring back at her, and his smug smirk says all: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just try it. See what happens.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She swallows. Well, that’s a bad idea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen,” He continues. “I’m going to remove your clothes, so don’t move unless you want it to hurt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls on her coat, but it’s only at the sound of his knife tearing through the seams that Iris actually processes </span>
  <em>
    <span>what-the-fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> he just said to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What!?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Her stomach drops as he grins at her, “No! You don’t need to do that!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade chuckles, shaking his head as if she’s a cute dog that just did something adorably stupid, and not a </span>
  <em>
    <span>literal-goddamn-human</span>
  </em>
  <span> who’s about to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>stripped</span>
  </em>
  <span> of her fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>dignity.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop! Don’t touch me!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ignores her, continuing with the knife. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fucking stop!” Iris shouts, jerking as he pulls the main body of her coat away. The knife slips and she gasps at the feeling of the blade nicking her side. Strade licks his teeth before the lazy grin he’s wearing morphs into one of apology. It’s not a </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> apology—it’s the same fake customer service smile she’s practiced a thousand times. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ach. I told you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice is warm, a gentle chiding as he shifts his knife to his other hand. He then places his left hand on her side, fingers sliding over her ribs toward the tear in her uniform. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re lucky,” Strade says as she hisses at his fingers on the cut, “It could have been worse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He presses harder, making her wince as he repeats, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Much worse.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Point taken.” Iris refuses to look him in the eye. His smile is different now. Tighter around the eyes—like he’s holding something back. But then it’s gone away, replaced with his regular sleazy smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> It’s unsettling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, you’re so cute!” Strade laughs as he cuts at her sleeve, “There’s no need to be shy!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not shy!” Iris bares her teeth into a scowl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, the knife stops. Strade leans back, bracing his free hand on her wrist tied to the left armrest. He looks her over, tapping the flat side of the knife against his chin while he thinks. He looks different when he isn’t smiling and Iris finds that she’s not sure which is more terrifying—Strade with or without a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then his sick little grin returns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not shy?” He drawls, voice low, “Well, you sure don’t look like </span>
  <em>
    <span>Annika.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Annika. Sweet, free-bird Annika. Annika</span>
  <em>
    <span>,</span>
  </em>
  <span> who's </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> bubbly and warm; flirting with Cook every time he exits the kitchen. Friendly with everyone. The kind of person who genuinely wants to help people; who goes to work everyday because she wants to be there—not because it’s the most recent stop on her way to the end of a very long rope. Not like </span>
  <em>
    <span>her,</span>
  </em>
  <span> with her fake smile.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iris knows an insult when she hears it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re always so</span>
  <em>
    <span> buttoned-up.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You see how I’d make that mistake, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The feeling of Strade’s hands undoing the top button to her uniform sends a renewed spike of panic through her. No no no no, he can’t—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Strade, stop!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “Why?” He undoes another button, “You aren’t shy, </span>
  <em>
    <span>right?</span>
  </em>
  <span> What would Annika d—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What would Annika do?!” Iris interrupts with a shout, “What would she do!? She wouldn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>be</span>
  </em>
  <span> in this scenario, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you absolute fuck!</span>
  </em>
  <span> She’d have suplexed your ass back into the nasty garbage bin you crawled out of </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span> after Cook finished kicking your teeth in—But sure! Sure though, let’s pretend she </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> here! She’d spit straight into your </span>
  <em>
    <span>greasy-fucking-face</span>
  </em>
  <span> right after telling you to </span>
  <em>
    <span>go fuck yourself</span>
  </em>
  <span> on a rusty </span>
  <em>
    <span>pike</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you piece-o—”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand moves fast, and the slap Strade gives her stings. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Motherfu</span>
  </em>
  <span>—his eyes are narrowed as they stare at each other, his mouth tense in a barely-hidden grimace. It dawns on her, then, that he could have done </span>
  <em>
    <span>much worse</span>
  </em>
  <span> than slap her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, that was a dangerous fuck-up. She’s not going to repeat it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So… might be time to try playing nice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Strade?” She tries again, keeping her voice soft. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ignores her. She balls her fists, refusing the building urge to cry as he undoes another button.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Strade… I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hands stop. She knows they can both hear how she’s struggling to not cry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, you can drive me back to my motel. I’ll get in my car and leave town. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tonight.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I promise you won’t ever see me again.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade tilts his head to the side, and for a moment, it seems like he might actually be considering it. But the illusion is broken when he grabs both sides of her uniform and tugs, easily popping the buttons apart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iris holds back the sob that threatens to burst from her chest as she closes her eyes, leaning back into the chair. She already knows what he’ll ask next—what she’s been dreading. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’re these?” Strade asks on cue. She can feel his fingers, warm and ever-so-slightly sweaty tracing the skin that covers her breastbone. It makes her want to puke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do they look like?” She responds, voice cracking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cigarette burns.” Strade says, and somehow he sounds pleased. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tears come easily after that. He pulls out the knife again, repeating the same actions he did to her coat with the uniform. Cut the seams. Tear apart. Leave cuts when she moves—cuts that are likely on purpose. Soon enough, she’s just in her leggings, boots and bra. She feels oddly distant, staring at a watermark on the ceiling as tears roll down her face. The concept that she should feel embarrassed occurs to her, but the actual emotion died the moment he saw her chest. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She feels so fucking tired all of sudden. Why can’t he just hurry up and kill her… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s this?” Strade asks when he spots the scar on her right knee. He’d made the effort of removing the leggings like normal pants at first, but then got bored and took his knife to them like the rest of her clothes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, that.” She answers blankly, sniffling. “It’s from a bedspring.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A bedspring?” He repeats. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah… I uh,” Iris falters. Seems her sense of embarrassment isn’t quite as dead as she thought. “It happened…  when I was having sex with a girlfriend…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade blinks, and a moment later, breaks out into a loud laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you broke the bed?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps.” She mumbles, feeling her face warm up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a good memory, in a way.  Of a simpler time. Before Adam. Before her life went to shit. How many years ago… Three? Four? God, it hasn’t been five, has it? She can still remember the look of worry on Cyn’s face as she drove them to the local ER for stitches. Poor Cyn. She’d always panicked about blood, and there had certainly been enough coming from her knee… They’d laughed about it, later, while sitting in the parking lot of a Dairy Queen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> It’s not a memory she wants to share with Strade. It’s for her alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, he can have her cigarette burns. The cigarette burns and the terrible memories that come with. Of being held down. The smell of burning flesh and the searing pain with it. The shame afterwards; the frustration of something as simple as summer clothes shopping wrecked—trying to find tops that covered them without looking like a nun felt impossible. Strade can have all of that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tucks his knife away, then slides his hands down her leg—</span>
  <em>
    <span>she ignores the feeling</span>
  </em>
  <span>—before coming to a stop at her ankle. He digs his fingers into the laces of her boot, deftly undoing the knots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait--Strade! Wait a sec—” Iris stammers, realizing that if he removes her boot, he’ll find her </span>
  <em>
    <span>knife. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But before she can even finish her sentence, he pulls off her boot with a final tug. Her heart stops at the sound of the knife hitting the floor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a long stretch of silence after that, the only sound being the frantic pulse in her ears.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “You,” Strade says, </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally,</span>
  </em>
  <span> as he holds up the knife with </span>
  <em>
    <span>glee.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “I knew you’d be interesting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pops the blade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to have some fun.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And chapter 4 is done!</p><p>Up next: A past is revealed and a bargain is struck.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Dog Years</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Secrets are spilled over a patch up.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Strade’s definition of fun turns out to be exactly what she fears. A knife nut with no qualms about hurting others—rather, a knife nut </span>
  <em>
    <span>desiring</span>
  </em>
  <span> to hurt others. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s over quick enough, but even that feels like a calculated tactic, kind of like going slow at sex so you don’t pop off in five seconds—She doesn't want to find out what he’s like when he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> into it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>More surprisingly, Strade takes the time to stitch closed the worst of the cuts he’s given her once he’s calmed down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, about the police…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The feeling of his hands against her arm and the medical needle weaving through her skin is distracting, and it’s a moment before Iris even realizes he spoke to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t say anyth—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade interrupts her answer with a chuckle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the expression… broken record?” He says, grinning at her, “What did you do—that you’re hiding from the bulls?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And just like that, the loaded gun has gone off. Strade wants to know what she did—what’s so bad that she’d try to use it as a way to gain his trust. In a way, she knew it was going to come back up—she’d still hoped that he thought she was bluffing. Just a regular waitress, maybe an idiot who says things without thinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And well, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> an idiot who says things without thinking. Because now he wants to know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Can she make something up? Something bad but not horrible. Maybe she’s been skimping on taxes? No, that’s stupid. Maybe it would be better just to tell the truth. Maybe that would endear her to him? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade digs the needle into her arm—far deeper than needed to stitch a cut. Iris winces, grinding her teeth as she inhales sharply through her nose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s still smiling, but won’t be for long if she keeps stalling. Better talk quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I killed a man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The look Strade makes as she answers reminds Iris of a child on Christmas morning—the wonder and curiosity of not knowing what they’re about to get under all that gift wrap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His—” Her voice cracks. She swallows slowly, then continues, “His name was Adam. I thought he would be my everything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” She can practically hear Strade’s eyeroll with how flat his response becomes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know what you’re thinking. ‘Silly sentimental woman, putting all her hope into one man.’” An awkward laugh bursts from her chest as she locks eyes with Strade. “It’s nothing I haven’t said to myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade makes a low hum in the back of his throat as he pulls the sutures tight. She tries not to flinch when he pulls her knife back out and cuts the medical thread, and holds back her cry when he douses her arm in rubbing alcohol. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go on.” He says, prodding her to continue as he puts the supplies back into the first aid kit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We… moved fast. I guess I was eager for a new connection. Big mistake.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can still see Adam clearly. Sandy blond hair. Red beard. Grey eyes as stormy as a summer rain. His fist; knuckles bleeding raw from where he punched a hole into their bedroom wall. Her windshield, cracked, from when he rammed his head into it in a fit of rage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He changed once we were together. Just as passionate, but…” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s your fault. I can’t believe you’d do this to me. How could you? You need help. You say I’m the sick one but you’re just as bad! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She doesn’t need to repeat that. Not when Strade has already seen the burns that remain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sometimes he’d get on about how he wanted to die young. A suicide pact—or how he could kill me and then die by cop. A real pathetic blaze of glory…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s an irony to how they ended; the bitter hilarity of it makes her mouth twist into a grin as she lets out a laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess the joke was on him that he’s in the dirt while I’m still alive.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade, quiet through the whole thing, guwaffs at that loudly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me about that.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants to know about the murder. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But… the concept of admitting what she did—of the sick satisfaction she took in it—is not something she wants to give Strade the knowledge of. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iris takes a deep breath, steadying herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It wasn’t supposed to happen.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first lie is easy. It’s basically the truth. It wouldn’t have happened if she’d been smarter. But Adam had said it would be different. That he was trying—he was trying and </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn't that enough?</span>
  </em>
  <span> She had believed him like a fool—a fucking fool, like time after time, and taken him back again.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We… got into a fight—I don’t remember about what and he,” She pauses, “He got physical. He’d always get violent when drinking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This lie is harder, even if mostly true. If Adam was in a good mood, he’d be toothless. A drunk puppy lying on the sofa, begging for her affections. But a bad mood mixed with hard booze meant the world came crashing down around their ears as a fight inevitably broke out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We ended up in the kitchen. He… he pinned me against the fridge and….”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Play the victim. Don’t think about it—don’t think about how Adam was passed out on the sofa.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just remember him—I remember thinking ‘I’m going to die here’,” Iris can feel the sweat building on the back of her neck as she stares at Strade, “I don’t even remember grabbing the knife from the block… we were on the floor and blood was everywhere… and then he was dead.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Don’t think about how she held one of the throw pillows over his face. Held it there until his chest stopped moving. How he didn’t fight, couldn’t even fight—defenceless, </span>
  <em>
    <span>not even a threat </span>
  </em>
  <span>as she killed him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you do with the body?” Strade tilts his head to the side. His expression is curious—it almost feels like he’s sizing her up. Competition in the murder department? Unlikely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… I didn’t do anything with it, I just left him there and then took off. I’ve been hopping from towns ever since.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another half-truth. She’d written a note saying how she was leaving him for good—how he’d hurt her for the last time—and left it stuck to the fridge.  Then she took one of his cigarettes, lit it, and threw it onto the sofa, watching as the fabric began to smolder, and finally catch fire. That ugly sofa he’d bought at some second-hand store had become his funeral pyre.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She left town that night, and didn’t dare look back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade is quiet after she finishes her story, staring at her as he runs his fingers over the knife blade in his hand. The grin he gives her when he finally speaks makes her uncomfortable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you think you’d ever do it again? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Murder?”</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Strade asks. His tone makes it sound like he’s asking about something deeply pleasurably, and not ending somebody’s life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wha—No! Never!” Iris stammers, feeling her heart wrench.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s another lie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade tilts his head to the side. The grin he’s wearing is tight around the eyes again—he knows. He knows she just lied to his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both know she’s thought more than once about killing him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mercifully—more like </span>
  <em>
    <span>surprisingly—</span>
  </em>
  <span>Strade leaves her alone after that. He says nothing about her lie, just closes the first aid kit with an air of finality and leaves the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She can feel the adrenaline leak out from within her the moment he’s gone. Just draining out and draining out until there’s nothing left but a deep deep tiredness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a sigh, Iris closes her eyes and leans back into the chair. It’s time to rest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or would be, if everything didn’t hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before, the rush of adrenaline allowed her to ignore the pain unless it was brought to her attention. But now, every single cut Strade has given her is red, raw, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>aching.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The one on her side stings with every slight brush of her arm when she tries to adjust her posture. Moving her foot to flex her toes to help circulation causes pain—one of her toes might be broken thanks to the doorframe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Could this get worse?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seems it could. Not long after she’s managed to settle uncomfortably into the chair, the sound of a drill starts up from the next room over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That would be annoying enough on a normal day… but today is not a normal day. Especially when somebody—the man from the bar?—starts screaming over the sound of the drill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Son of a fucking whore, she’s going to die here, isn’t she? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The screaming continues. The drill abruptly stops, yet the screaming continues. It continues for what feels like forever, though in reality was probably only a few minutes, before stopping.  And then Strade is back in the room, sick grin like he just had an amazing idea all over his face. He grabs the wheelie chair, pushing Iris towards the door before turning back around to dig through the computer desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Normally I’d give you more time to rest,” Strade says. He laughs,</span>
  <em>
    <span> almost</span>
  </em>
  <span> sounding apologetic as he digs through the drawer. “But plans change, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finally finds what he’s looking for and pulls it out. Black fabric, something that he shakes out before slipping it over his head. When he turns to face her, a chill runs down Iris’ spine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See something you like?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mouth has been replaced with a skeletal grin—the lower jaw of a skeleton printed onto the black bandana fabric. His eyes crinkle around the edges and she knows he’s wearing that stupid smile underneath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade doesn’t wait for her to respond. He turns, grabbing the laptop and camera that rest next to the computer desk before carrying them out of the room. The man in the other room starts screaming again—but with the door open this time, Iris can hear him easily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!? KILL ME! KILL ME! KILL ME! JUST FUCKING KILL ME ALREADY, YOU BASTARD! STOP PLAYING AROUND AND—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade comes back through the doorway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ready?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait! What’s—” Strade grabs both armrests before she can finish her question, dragging the chair forward into the other room with his eyes locked on hers the entire time. A freezer. Stairs. He pulls her into an open area of the room—a workbench on her left, and to her right, the man from the bar, tied to a support pole. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got a treat for you today!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice sounds funny all of a sudden—like he’s over-enunciating. A showman.  It’s not clear who he’s addressing—her or the bar man—but the moment he steps out of her view, she realizes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The camera is on. The laptop as well, sitting next to it on an overturned storage bin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What the fuck?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade pushes the chair forwards, closer to the camera. A series of dings erupt from the laptop—desktop notifications from the sound of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They think you’re cute,” Strade purrs. He digs his fingers into her hair again, wrenching his hand down hard enough that her head snaps back. Iris lets out a yelp of pain—the computer sounds a chorus of dings in response.</span>
</p><p><span>Vultures. Freaks. Degenratives. Who the fuck—  </span> </p><p>
  <span>“What are you fucking doing, Strade!? I said </span>
  <em>
    <span>KILL ME!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> The man from the bar has recovered from his moment of confused silence. If looks could kill Strade would be dead on the concrete.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The laugh Strade gives in response is muffled by his bandana.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Grey, meet Iris. Iris—Grey.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I DON’T FUCKING CARE WHAT HER NAME IS!” Grey shrieks as he strains forward in his bonds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade doesn’t respond. He pulls out his knife, turning towards her. Iris feels her stomach drop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is this it? Is he going to kill her? Was Strade simply waiting for the guy—Grey—to break? Is he planning to use her, some twisted example to show Grey just what he’s in for? He steps closer and her panic grows worse. This is really it then—fuck, so soon? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait—” Iris croaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“ME! GOD DAMN IT! ME!” Grey shrieks even louder as Strade leans down towards her with the knife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iris closes her eyes. She braces for the pain, but instead, Strade cuts the rope holding her wrists. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She opens her eyes slowly. Strade has backed away, crouched behind Grey with his knife in hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to play a game,” Strade says. He undoes one rope slowly, and then the other. Grey grabs his wrists, his chest heaving with every bewildered breath he takes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A game? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, that sounds like a very, very bad idea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iris rises slowly from the chair. The stairs! Could she get to the—Strade is still watching her, watching </span>
  <em>
    <span>them</span>
  </em>
  <span>, as he stands and stalks towards the workbench. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The rules are simple. Winner lives; I let you go. Loser?” Strade looks at Grey as he pauses, “The loser dies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The computer starts to ping again, and Iris can picture the responses</span>
  <em>
    <span>—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Glorious, just glorious. </em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>I would have thought of that myself. </em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Wow, this is going to be fun! </em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Shit, better grab the popcorn. </em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Slice and dice babeyyy.</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>Freaks. Fucking Psychos.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eine.” Strade holds his right hand up, thumb in the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Iris looks at Grey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Zwei.” She can see Strade hold up his index in her peripheral vision.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grey stares back at her. He looks determined, teeth bared like some kind of animal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Drei!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strade throws his left arm out, dangling his knife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Augen Auf!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tosses it to the floor between them.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>My birthday is tomorrow so here’s an early birthday gift to you all and to myself! :)</p><p>In addition:<br/>Here’s an interesting fact about Strade using the word bulls to describe the police. In German, “Bullen” is slang for cops, much like we would use pigs in English. So I figured it would be likely that Strade would use a literal translation of Bullen/Bulls when in English rather than using the English slang term.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Fresh Blood, Tired Skin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The afore-promised knife-fight, and said aftermath. TW: Rape and Religious themes.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The knife hits the concrete, skidding across the floor. </p><p>Iris’ legs feel like jelly after disuse for several hours when she rushes to grab the knife—Grey is surprisingly fast, swiping it from her reach with ease. </p><p>Fuck.</p><p>She backs away from him fast, placing the metal support pole between them as they begin to circle each other. </p><p>“It’s nothing personal,” Grey laughs. His expression is twitchy, the knife trembling in his bleeding hand.</p><p>He’s more cracked than an egg. </p><p>Strade is watching them intently from behind Grey, sitting on the edge of the workbench. </p><p>“Wait-Grey-Stop!” Iris stammers. She doesn’t need him to charge her—not yet. Not before she’s figured out how to get out of this. “Don’t be stupid! He’ll just kill you the moment you’re done.” </p><p>Strade lets out a laugh in the background. Grey pales, glancing behind him. <em> Now! </em> Iris throws herself around the pole, tackling him to the floor. </p><p>The knife clatters on the concrete.</p><p>“YOU BITCH!” Grey snarls, spitting. They’re a tangle of arms and legs as he fights to get her off him—the knife, where’s the knife!? </p><p>His elbow cracks against her jaw—the sudden force throws Iris off. It’s all Grey needs. He grabs her shoulders and locks his legs against her back, forcing them into a roll. Stuck underneath him—he forces her head down, slamming it against the concrete before sitting on her stomach.</p><p>The pain makes her foggy—Dazed.</p><p>His hands grip her throat. </p><p>It’s only then that she realizes just how much Grey looks like Adam.</p><p>He’s choking her. Trying to. She tries to raise her hips to knock him off—he’s too heavy.  Panic sets in. Grey’s weight on her stomach makes it worse. She can’t breathe! The knife. The knife—where is the knife?!</p><p>The computer starts pinging again. She knows what the vultures want.</p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Blood.</b>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b><em>More blood.</em> </b>
</p><p>The bruises around Grey’s nose make his eyes even more blue. Iris throws her hand out in a palm strike. He turns his face—her hand hits his cheek instead. </p><p>“You couldn’t just lie down and die easily, huh?” He growls, grabbing her wrist with his other hand. “I’d make it quick!”</p><p>He digs his fingers into the stitches on her arm. Iris glares at him, even as her eyes fill with tears. She throws her other hand out, desperately searching for the knife. </p><p>More pings.</p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Get it over with.</b>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Kill her.</b>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <b>I wanted blood! More blood!</b>
  </em>
</p><p>Strade is a grinning spectral on the edge of her vision. He’s watching her choke. </p><p>She can’t die here—can’t be some internet freak’s fun show. Her hand hits dead air. The knife? Nothing. Concrete. Where is it—where is the knife? Where? She can’t die here. Will not die here. Not like this! Where is the—</p><p>Her palm hits the handle. She closes her fingers tight around it, then jabs.</p><p>The knife connects.</p><p>Grey gasps. His grip on her throat loosens. Iris pulls the knife from his neck. </p><p>Blood comes with it.</p><p>His eyes are wide—fearful. </p><p>She stabs him again. The knife slips easily under his ribs. His mouth opens. No sound escapes. </p><p>The computer pings.</p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Blood.</b>
  </em>
</p><p>Another stab. </p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Death.</b>
  </em>
</p><p>Grey tries to stand, clutching at his chest and neck. He collapses next to her.</p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Murder.</b>
  </em>
</p><p>Iris stabs him again.</p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Kill.</b>
  </em>
</p><p>And again.</p><p>
  <em><b>Blood</b>.</em>
</p><p>And again.</p><p>
  <em><b>Death</b>.</em>
</p><p>“Please,” Grey coughs beneath her—his teeth are stained pink.</p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Murder.</b>
  </em>
</p><p>Her hands are shaking.</p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Kill.</b>
  </em>
</p><p>She aims for his throat again.</p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Blood.</b>
  </em>
</p><p>There’s so much of it. So much red.</p><p>
  <em>
    <b>Death.</b>
  </em>
</p><p>Grey finally goes still.</p><p> </p><p>The computer stops pinging. The basement is silent. Only her breathing. In, and then out. Only Strade’s breathing. In and out and in and out and—Iris stands up.</p><p>Grey’s blood is cooling fast on her face, solidifying into a sticky dryness that reminds her of paint. The knife is still stuck in his throat, a bubbling stream of red turned from a gush into a languid trickle.</p><p>There’s something metallic in her mouth. Blood probably—hers or Grey’s? </p><p>She spits onto the floor. The taste remains.</p><p>“Can I... go now?” </p><p>She asks the question. Asks it even though she already knows the answer. There’s no leaving. She told Grey that. No leaving unless… </p><p><em> Dead and dying, bleeding out. Bleeding and bleeding and bleeding. Begging for death. </em> </p><p>If Strade answers, she doesn’t hear him. She’s too focused on staring at her shaking bloody hands.</p><p>She won.</p><p>She <em> won— </em>but it doesn’t feel like it.</p><p>There’s a dead man at her feet. She should feel something about that. Sadness. Remorse, even. But she doesn’t feel anything. Maybe she should feel something about <em> that. </em></p><p>The laptop notifications are pinging again, an erratic staccato that reminds her they’re not alone. Strade grabs her arms. When did he get so close? He’s saying something. The bandana obscures his mouth. Sound without picture or words. </p><p>And then she’s on the floor—sprawled over Grey, elbows on either side of his stomach. For a moment she expects him to move, expects his chest to expand against hers—but that’s stupid because he’s already dead. </p><p>“Oh <em> Waschbär,” </em> Strade purrs, “Look at what you did…”</p><p>Waschbär—what does that mean? She vaguely remembers him using it the night before.  </p><p>Strade lowers himself down behind her.  His legs dig into her calves, pinning them to the bloody concrete on either side of Grey. His hand is in her hair again. There’s a snap as the elastic band breaks, as her hair cascades down her shoulders. His hand drifts lower, from her scalp to the back of her neck, then stops.</p><p><em> “Look at what you did,” </em> He repeats with a sudden breathlessness. He forces her head down to Grey’s chest. The blood that seeps up through one of his wounds covers her cheek. Viscous and stinking of copper. Enough to drown in.</p><p>She doesn’t dare look. She focuses past Grey instead. Far past his head, to where the camera lies, red light blinking; watching the three of them like the eye of God. </p><p>And then Strade grabs her hips. Everything snaps into sharp focus.</p><p>“Wait.” Voice cracking—she hates that he can hear her sudden panic. Strade laughs, wrapping an arm under her stomach. He pulls her against him; with a dizzying sense of horror Iris confirms he’s <em> hard. </em>  She tries to pull herself forward—grips Grey’s arms for leverage. No use. Her legs are stuck. <em> She’s stuck. </em> Strade moves his hand from her neck. He places it in the crook of her hip, his sweaty fingers digging into the band of her underwear as he pulls them down.</p><p>“No-no-no—<em> stop,” </em> She croaks, words catching in the back of her throat.</p><p>A zip, followed by the clink of adjusting his belt and then he’s—Iris closes her eyes tight. Ignore it. Ignore it. <em> Ignore </em>—Strade shudders and she can feel the way he moves against her. </p><p><em> Inside </em> her. </p><p>Don’t think about it. Do not think about it. Do not thin—Strade thrusts. She digs her nails deep into the cooling flesh of Grey’s arms.</p><p>Everything is tight—like her body is trying to turn inside out, from the pits of her stomach to her heart choking her throat as it tries to escape this violation.</p><p>The computer makes another series of pings.</p><p>Iris doesn’t dare imagine what the chat says.</p><p>Is it possible she’s already dead? Maybe she <em> actually </em> died the night she tried to drive eight hours straight and almost crashed the car—the God she knows <em> would </em> be that cruel. </p><p>Divine Retribution: Tortured. Raped. Murdered.</p><p>Maybe this is hell.</p><p>It wouldn’t be surprising. When was the last time she stepped into a fucking church? Long before she <em> murdered </em> Adam. If it had been self-defence… maybe she’d have a leg to stand on. But he was asleep—defenceless. Cold blooded murder is not rewarded with a nice cushy cloud Heaven. </p><p>Hell, if Strade finally kills her after this, she’ll probably just wake up<em> here, </em> covered in blood and body whole again so that they can have more <em> fun. </em> Hallelujah. Praise-the-fucking-Lord.</p><p>“You killed another man, Waschbär.” Strade grabs her by the hair, tugging hard enough that she opens her eyes with a yelp, “Another man is dead <em> because </em> of you.” </p><p>She knows her sins. Strade doesn’t need to remind her. Adam had it coming. It was a matter of time—anyone who was in her place would agree. If not him, her. He had it coming the moment he went so far as to brand his cigarettes into her skin; to put his hands around her throat.</p><p>Grey is staring at her with his unseeing eyes.</p><p>What of him? What sin did he commit that he deserved this? To deserve death in this hellhole basement? </p><p>He would have killed her. He should have killed her. She’s been dead for so long, in soul if not body. </p><p>Maybe that’s the sin she’s being punished for.</p><p>Selfishly continuing to live. </p><p>Strade grunts from behind her as he picks up his already rough and unforgiving pace. She swallows her building sobs, locking them down deep underneath her ribs. She can feel Strade’s sweat through his shirt, sticking to her back with every roll of his hips. </p><p>Defiled for everyone to see—a sick fucking joke by a cosmic psychopath. </p><p>The knife is still sticking out of Grey’s throat. It would be easy, wouldn’t it? To reach out and grab it. Wrap her fingers around it… </p><p>With a sudden growl, Strade reaches his end, spilling inside her.</p><p>She stops thinking. </p><p>He pulls out. <em>Warm, sticky, wet—</em>down her thighs.  All ignored.</p><p>Strade lets go. She drops, collapsing onto Grey’s corpse. She straddles him; tucks her legs up under herself as she buries her face into his chest. How small can she make herself? Small enough that the camera doesn’t notice as she begins to sob? </p><p>She can feel a hand on the back of her head, gently stroking her hair as she chokes on her tears. A wet squish as Strade finally pulls the knife from where it's sheathed in Grey’s throat and says, “Well, looks like we’re all done for today!” </p><p>And yet he still doesn’t kill her.</p><p>Instead, he lets her continue to sob as he shuts the laptop. As he turns off the camera. As he scoops her up in his arms like some kind of toy—like a little doll—and ties her to the support pole.   </p><p>She watches.</p><p>Watches with tears still running down her face.</p><p>As Strade gets an axe from his workbench and makes a show of dismembering Grey’s poor body.  As his butchered remains burn in the basement kiln.   </p><p>And maybe—just maybe—she wonders if Grey is the true winner afterall.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter was particularly hard for me to write; but I felt it was necessary to get through for the sake of showing that Iris really does suffer from guilt. A very tightly wrapped guilt that easily morphs into self-hatred when put under the right kind of stress.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey All! I'm back finally with another story for BTD. I know a bunch of people wanted me to continue Niemand (which I orphaned so you can still find) but due to personal reasons I could no longer continue it. I hope you'll enjoy Iris and her story just as much!</p><p>If you’re looking for a discord server to join, you can come find me here: https://discord.gg/xkhvSgx2</p></blockquote></div></div>
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